Of course Charlotte was wrong.

Every woman was wrong. They had to be, or else humanity would have died out long ago. If they could hear the vilest thoughts in a man’s head, see the craven darkness lurking in his chest . . . they would never allow men anywhere near them.

And chances were, it worked the same for women, too. Charlotte doubtless had flaws or some insecurity she’d rather swallow tacks than let him see. It wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference in the way he felt. He didn’t love her for being perfect, he loved her for being Charlotte.

Good God.

He loved her.

He loved her.

Of course he did. She understood him. Reached out to him, no matter how many times he pushed her away. She’d found a way inside his heart, and if she left him now, he would be more hollow than ever.

Naturally he would realize this after he’d set her room on fire. And humiliated her in front of several people. Then caused her best friend to reject her. Pity about that tearing-her-dreams-to-shreds bit, too.

Bloody hell.

Piers braced his hands flat on the desk and pushed back in his chair, drawing to his feet. He was a man of action. He couldn’t sit here, doing nothing.

He’d deservedly sunk to the level of pond scum. Somehow he had to scrape and claw his way back up. Beg Charlotte’s forgiveness, confess his true emotions.

No, no. He had the steps out of order.

First, admit to having emotions.

Then confess what they were.

Convince her he would make all her dreams come true, plead with her to be his wife . . . Flowers probably wouldn’t go amiss. All of that in—

He glanced at the clock.

Five hours. Give or take. No small task, and the stakes couldn’t have been higher. Even if he succeeded in setting the stage for a grand apology, there were no guarantees Charlotte would accept it. He was in danger of losing her forever.

He tugged on his cuffs, pulling them straight. Well, was he a top agent of the Crown, or wasn’t he?

Danger was what he lived for.

Chapter Twenty-three

For Charlotte, it was an all-too-familiar scene.

The orchestra warmed their instruments, the quadrille began . . . and she found herself a wallflower once again. Delia sat in the opposite corner of the ballroom, refusing to look her way.

At least tonight she had her family surrounding her. Mama stood chatting—or more likely, boasting—with Lady Parkhurst and her friends. But Diana and Aaron, Minerva and Colin . . . they all kept Charlotte company.

“You needn’t stand about with me,” Charlotte said. “You should dance.”

“I’m not much for dancing,” Aaron said.

“Neither am I,” said Minerva.

Charlotte turned to Colin, who had seldom encountered a dance or a partner he didn’t enjoy.

“I’ll save my strength for the waltz,” he said. “I’m getting to be a grizzled old man, you know. A touch of the gout perhaps.”

Her lips curved in a bittersweet smile. They were so transparently trying to console her—and she loved them for it.

Diana sidled close to Charlotte and took her arm, squeezing it in a reassuring gesture. “What time is the engagement due to be announced?”

“Lady Parkhurst asked us to wait until the end of the midnight supper. Everyone will be gathered in one place. Sir Vernon will raise a toast.”

Minerva tilted her head. “Have you decided what you’ll—”

“No,” Charlotte said. “Not yet.”

She was waiting to see Piers. Desperate to speak with him. But as yet, he hadn’t made an appearance in the ballroom. This time, she wasn’t going to chase after him.

Colin firmed his jaw. “If he doesn’t come up to scratch, Dawes and I will call him out. Won’t we, Aaron?”

Aaron crossed his big blacksmith’s arms over his chest. “Absolutely.”

“You don’t want to do that,” Charlotte warned. “Lord Granville’s handy with a pistol. And his brother would be his second.”

Colin considered this. “That’s the heavyweight champion bare-knuckle fighter brother, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Just confirming that he didn’t, you know, have another, smaller, less violent brother.” Colin sipped from his drink. “We’d still do it, of course.”

“Absolutely,” Aaron said, sounding a shade less absolute about it than he had been a moment before.

“We’d hold our own. Dawes here is brawny, and I’ve been in a brawl or two. We were Spindle Cove’s finest militiamen, weren’t we? You know, the finest not counting Bram. Or Thorne.”

“Susanna,” Minerva added. “Susanna ranked above you too, I believe.”

Colin’s mouth pulled to the side. “Yes, can’t deny that. But we’re no slouches.”

“Solidly in the top quartile,” Charlotte said.

Her heart pinched in her chest. Where on earth could Piers be? She scanned the room, leaning to either side to peer around the pairs of dancers. A glimpse of a tall man with dark hair propelled her a few paces to the left.

It wasn’t Piers.

But something else caught her attention.

A hint of perfume, wafting behind her.

The perfume.

Poppies, vanilla, and black amber. No doubt in her mind. The aroma took her directly back to the library window seat, where she’d laughed in Piers’s arms as the desk creaked and lovers groaned.

She turned in place, striving to appear nonchalant as she searched for the perfume’s source. Her path was obstructed by a pair of gentlemen, who parted for her cordially—but maddeningly slowly—causing her to lose precious seconds. She began to work her way along the edge of the ballroom, sniffing as deeply and frequently as she could without prompting inquiries on the state of her health.

Then her heel caught on something slick, and her foot nearly slipped out from beneath her. She turned to look down at the floor. A folded piece of paper lay in the shadows where the damask silk wall-covering met the inlaid parquet.

Charlotte discreetly crouched to pick it up. As soon as she had it in her hand, she could smell it. It wasn’t a perfumed person she’d detected, but a perfumed note.

Her pulse drummed in her ears, and she concealed the note in her gloved hand.

She didn’t dare open it here.

Without stopping to give a word of explanation, she slipped out of the ballroom and headed directly upstairs to her bedchamber. She locked the door behind her and lit a small lamp before unfolding the paper with trembling fingers.